The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4) by C.J. Aaron (graded readers txt) 📕

Ryl’s impact on the arrows was profound. The projectiles were shattered by the hundreds. The blistering heat and flames vaporized much of the remaining wooden debris and fletching. Still, those outside the arc of Ryl’s wind were unaffected. Their damage would be dramatic, though he could do nothing to affect the outcome.

Ducking his face into the crook of his elbow, Ryl released his hold on the speed. He’d grown accustomed to the snapping of time as normalcy was restored. Stray bits of metal and charred shavings of wood pelted his side. They bounced off the hardened crust of his woodskin, stinging where they struck, yet resulting in no substantial damage.

Many of those outside of the path of his influence did not fare as well. The solid thuds of the projectiles striking earth were drowned by the pained screams of the guards. Hundreds felt the vicious bite of the arrows. Agonized cries rose from all around as the toll was exacted on their comrades. Jagged metal barbs protruded from flesh. Blood poured from the wounds as the tears streamed unabated. Many who fell were unmoving, a cruel twist of luck as the deadly point found a fatal entry.

Ryl rose to his feet. His defense was unnecessary. He let the brilliant green blades flicker into dormancy. The guards who regained their footing hastened to the aid of their wounded comrades. They cast worried glances, targeting the army at the rear, not the lone cloaked warrior standing in their midst.

Those closest to him backed away sheepishly. Their expressions were framed by looks of awe or horror at what they’d just witnessed. Ryl repressed the urge to delve into the inherent knowledge of the alexen, curious at the unexpected reaction of the blades and the soulborne wind. Green fire had burned the sky.

The greater impact of the flight of arrows and the damage they wrought upon their friends was more profound. The guards were sapped of their morale. Their fighting spirit seemed to evaporate as the Leaves faded into nothing more than innocuous lengths of well-worn wood.

Ryl seized the opportunity to stoke the fire of uncertainty that caught as the last of the arrows felled friend, not foe.

“This is the callous indifference of how your kingdom, how Lord Maklan treats you?” Ryl spat. His voice echoed over the gathered army. He laced the words with emotion. Raw honesty poured from his body. “The sons of Damaris, trusted warriors, chosen to guard over the most coveted resource in the kingdom. Cut down by your own commanding officer, the mouthpiece of the king. Your lives are meaningless to them.”

Ryl moved forward. Those in his path backed away as he put one foot purposefully in front of the other. The army around him was scattered. Wounded lay writhing in pain, their blood mixing with the loose dirt. Some pawed frantically for signs of life among downed colleagues and friends.

Ryl could see over the temporarily placated crowd. The disturbance by the edge of the river had subsided. A small pocket moved lazily through the reserves toward where Lord Maklan remained. The fighting had ceased. The phrenic mindsight painted a picture that turned his stomach.

The glow of the tribute was still steady—Aelin yet lived. What beating had he endured before the havoc he wrought was halted? He was strong beyond measure, yet under all his strength, he was but a child.

A nine-cycle-old boy, beaten by those likely triple his age. If the boy was mortally wounded, Ryl knew there was likely nothing he could do to hold himself back. The unknown, tormenting voice pleading deep within him would be granted its wish.

“Who is it that the kingdom protects?” The anger rose in his voice as he quickened his pace. “It is the tributes they need. You are just fodder. You are expendable. Not one of you will ever be granted the power of elixir, whose source you so fiercely defend.”

Maklan’s shrill voice cut through the crowd. “Archers. Loose,” the lord demanded. The blood flowing to his face stained his cheeks bright red. “Kill him!”

The archers reacted with a speed that demonstrated their true acceptance of the plan. They had witnessed the destruction their arrows had caused as they crashed through the ranks of friends.

Their target still stood. He had saved those close to him.

The object of their attack had done more to protect their comrades than they had.

A pair of guards moved from the ranks of reserves, depositing a body at Lord Maklan’s feet. The form was that of a child. The bloodstained, tattered apparel were evident from afar. His legs were limp. He crumpled to the ground as his captives released their hold.

Ryl burned at the sight.

“Hold,” Ryl boomed. He pointed his left arm toward Maklan. The innate stick was impressively threatening in his hands. “Stand aside. You have my word. Any who delay my passage will die.”

He strode forward. The shocked guards around him scrambled aside, dragging their wounded companions from his path. An alley formed as he walked, closing behind him after he’d passed, yet well beyond the reach of dormant blades.

The press of the crowd had subsided. Ryl quickened his steps, though he walked calmly through the avenue opening before him. His eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak, were active. Their careful observation cataloged every motion of those closest to him. With little effort, he forced a wave of emotions from his body.

Doubt.

Fear.

Those with weapons drawn angled their blades toward the ground. Those with blades still holstered kept their hands far from the hilts.

Gone were the hateful cries of bloodlust. The excitement had drained as the blood leaked from the dead and dying. Agonized wails rang from various mouths around him, forming a horrifying chorus of pain.

Maklan’s cursing order for arrows echoed again.

The creaking of bows drawn to their peak silenced the army.

Ryl stopped, pivoting his head so that his voice was clear to those following in his wake.

“The arrows will come for me yet again, whether you